Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me A Match
by Dead Man's Toe
Summary: When Irene Adler reappears, Mycroft Holmes forces Sherlock to take her in, thinking that she can distract him from his unrequited love for John. Meanwhile, Sherlock decides to do something about Mycroft's isolation. Contains unrequited Johnlock, unrequited Sherlolly, Adlock, Mollcroft, and John/Mary.
1. Lonely Hearts

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock.

**Set just after the events of The Sign Of Three.**

* * *

><p><em>Who leaves a wedding early?<em>

A heartbroken man, that's who. A man who had loved too much and hurt too deeply. A man who could no longer hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

As Sherlock approached his flat alone, a single tear carved a path down his gaunt cheek. He made no move to wipe it away but let it fall onto his coat. He couldn't help it. Everything hurt so much. Another tear fell from his other eye, creating a twin streak along the other side of his face.

Upon seeing the straightened door knocker, Sherlock instantly wiped his face clean. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping to erase any red that might have gathered there, before taking a deep breath and entering. The lights were on, and the faint scent of tea hung in the air. Sherlock shut the door behind him and went up the stairs.

Mycroft was sitting in his flat, on his couch, with a cup of tea in hand. Its twin sat on the coffee table invitingly. Sherlock picked it up and sat, lacking all his usual protest. The warm steam hit his nose. It was a small comfort, but Sherlock was grateful none the less.

"What brings you here, brother?" Sherlock asks after taking a sip.

"Concern for you," Mycroft replied uncharacteristically honest.

"I'm not involved," Sherlock protested weakly.

Mycroft's eyes examined him with sympathy. Sherlock steeled himself for the painful deduction that was undoubtedly about to pass his brother's lips. He knew it, of course. How could he not? It completely consumed him day and night, causing such incredible aching and longing. Still, hearing it out loud would force him to admit its validity, which would make it all hurt even more.

"You love him," Mycroft finally said. His voice softened with pain. An unrecognizable emotion lit up his eyes as he took a long sip. "How did I not see it before?"

"Because what do either of us know about love?" Sherlock replied, half answering and half asking.

Mycroft remained silent as he shifted closer to Sherlock, letting their shoulders touch. Sherlock felt the hesitancy in his movements and leaned into him reassuringly. It was nostalgic, sitting there with his brother. The last time they had sat together like this was after Redbeard had been put down.

His brother leaned closer, and it dawned on Sherlock that Mycroft was lonely too. He sat alone in that large house every night with no one to talk to. He was probably as comforted by Sherlock's presence as Sherlock was by Mycroft's.

Sherlock ran through a list of names in his head. Anthea? No, she was too young, too cold, too distant. Lestrade? He was single. However, he had kids, and Sherlock did not wish to overwhelm his brother. Donovan? She had been much kinder since Sherlock had returned, but he couldn't imagine her being remotely interested in Mycroft.

After another long sip, the cup was empty. Sherlock sighed. Only one of them needed to be miserable. Sherlock resolved to find his brother a suitable companion. It would provide him with a much needed distraction as he adapted back to living on his own again.

The loneliness hung in the air, making Sherlock's lungs feel heavy. Finally, Mycroft stood to leave. "If you need anything, you know where to find me," he said before exiting the flat. Sherlock nodded mutely. He didn't trust his voice. Mycroft couldn't give him the one thing he needed. John. Sherlock needed to hold him and know that he loved him back, but that would never happen.

The image of John's smiling face after he had kissed Mary kept appearing at the front of his brain. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and rubbed at them, hoping to scrub it away. John was happy with somebody else, but he was happy. That was all that mattered, Sherlock reminded himself.

Sherlock crossed the room to John's armchair. Away from prying eyes, he curled up on it and let himself sob. By the time his coat sleeves were soaked, he had fallen asleep.

* * *

><p>The familiar ache of loneliness followed Mycroft as he walked down Baker Street the next morning. Truth be told, his brother was the only friend he had, and there was nothing he could do for him.<p>

Just as he had the previous night, he invited himself in. The flat was unusually quiet for this time of day. The sun was already high in the sky, and the birds were awake, making as much noise as possible. Mycroft climbed the stairs and opened the door, unsure of what he would find.

There, on John's armchair, lay Sherlock. He was still in his clothes from the wedding, and faint tear tracks could be seen on his face. Mycroft felt his heart break again for his brother. Deciding that now was probably a bad time to disturb him, Mycroft left quietly.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Mycroft with sorrowful eyes. "Is he alright?" she asked, her voice quivering.

Mycroft descended the stairs to stand in front of her. "You will look after him, right?"

The landlady nodded her head eagerly. By the dark circles under her eyes, Mycroft could tell that she hadn't slept much last night.

"He needs us, Mrs. Hudson. Then maybe he will be alright."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Mycroft exited the flat to see the black car he had asked Anthea to send to pick him up. He climbed inside the back, expecting to at least see his assistant inside, typing away on her phone. Instead, he was alone.

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Mycroft knew that he should be used to the feeling by now. He was always alone. With a sigh, he leaned against the window. The glass made the scenery appear faded. The city that once held so much life now was dull and grey. With a heavy heart, he checked his phone. For a split second, Mycroft hoped it would be purely friendly, but that hope was quickly dashed. It was always work related.

The car arrived at his office. Mycroft, as if in a trance, walked towards it. His eyes were glazed over, but not in the usual cold expression. To anybody watching, Mycroft appeared sad.

Some part of Mycroft knew that he should hide his emotions and appear to be the cold businessman he always was, but he didn't have the energy. Another part of him wanted somebody to notice and ask how he was doing. Nobody did.

Mycroft sat in his office chair, resigned to another day of the same dull ache. Not even running the government could distract him from that ever present emptiness inside. Anthea surely had noticed by now, but she never mentioned it. Even now, she didn't give Mycroft a second glance as she dropped papers off at his desk and left.

For a moment, Mycroft considered calling her back to ask her how she was, but he knew it was foolish. She didn't care for him. Nobody here did.

* * *

><p>Molly knows that she shouldn't feel disappointed when Tom texts her, but she can't control it anymore than she could control the weather. With a sigh, she types a short reply. Within a few minutes, he texts her again, and she can't help the surge of irritation she feels.<p>

She shuts the sound off and stuffs the phone into her pocket. Try as she might to deny it, she knew the reason behind her annoyance. She wishes it was Sherlock texting her instead.

As she pushed the door open to the flat, she imagined him greeting her. Instead, only Toby mewed at her. "Hi, Tobes," she replied with a sigh. She seemed to be doing a lot of sighing these days.

Toby rubbed against her legs, and Molly smiled despite herself. "I'm going out to dinner with Tom tonight," she told him. She bent down and scooped him up in her arms. He purred with delight as he settled against her chest. She sat on the couch and buried her face into his soft fur.

"I don't love him," she admitted. Toby stared up at her with an expression that seemed to say, Yeah, Molly, we all know.

"I'm over Sherlock," Molly replied sternly. "Really. I am. Which is why I'm here complaining about my fiancé who I don't love to my cat."

Toby pawed at her face in an expression that Molly knew meant he wanted food. He jumped off her lap and ran to the kitchen. With another long sigh, Molly followed him.

She dumped a scoop of cat food into his bowl and watched as he devoured it greedily. "Good to know somebody loves me," Molly joked. A pang of sudden loneliness struck her chest. Molly ran her hands over her face and sighed for probably the hundredth time that day.

"I should get ready," she said aloud to nobody in particular.

She walked to her bedroom where she had lain a dress out on the bed. She changed into it quickly and stared at herself in the mirror. Not for the first time, she wished it were Sherlock taking her to dinner.

When the doorbell rang, Molly grabbed her purse and her best fake smile before going out to meet her fiancé.

* * *

><p>It had been such a long time since Irene had been in England. After Sherlock had rescued her, she had fled to Portugal, where she could lay low.<p>

She had lived a completely different life there. She got a job as an office secretary. She rented a house. She fostered dogs. To any outsider, Irene Adler appeared completely normal.

The dominatrix life was far behind her. Irene had successfully integrated herself into society. She was confident that she had dropped completely off the radar, and that nobody, save Sherlock Holmes, could find her.

However, she must not have been as thorough as she thought, because a letter arrived on her doorstep early one morning from her old assistant. The letter informed her that her mother was ill, and that her presence was requested back in England.

Without a hesitation, Irene packed and left. As she rode away in a cab, she wondered if she would ever see her house again. It was dangerous, Irene knew, but she had to risk it to see her mother.

Now, as she walked through the London airport, Irene's heart was pounding. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she waited for a cab.

As soon as the cab pulled up, Irene lowered her head to let her hair cover her face. She doubted she would be recognized, but she was still nervous. Softly, she gave the cabbie the address of the hospital.

Irene watched the passing scenery with a growing sense of nostalgia. She had been homesick, but staying hadn't been an option until now. As the cabbie drove in silence, Irene was pleased to discover that she remembered the way.

It was very surreal as Irene stepped out of the cab and paid him to wait. She kept her head lowered as she approached the hospital. The Iceman had cameras everywhere.

She found her mother's room without incident and sat at her bedside. Soon, Irene would find a hotel, but for now, she took her mother's hand and sat with her.


	2. Return Of The Ex-Dominatrix

**Set after the events of His Last Vow**

* * *

><p>As the file fell onto his desk, Mycroft's heart rate quickened. He never thought he would be seeing that file again. He glanced up at Anthea, whose face was as blank and emotionless as ever. "There's been an incident, sir," she said cooly. "It appears that Ms. Adler is alive and well."<p>

"Where is she now?" Mycroft asked. With shaky hands, he opened the file and glanced through the pictures. Ms. Adler had been in London for months now, going back and forth between the hospital and her dingy flat.

"In custody. We didn't discover her until yesterday, at her mother's funeral," Anthea answered.

Mycroft closed the file and put his fingers on his temples. After the recent reappearance of Moriarty, he hadn't slept much. He was starting to get a headache thinking of all the extra trouble Irene Adler could add.

"Also, your brother called with new information about Moriarty," Anthea added.

At the mention of his brother, Mycroft smiled. An idea had formed in his mind. "Well, I suppose Ms. Adler will be needing a babysitter, then."

Anthea's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Do you think that is wise, sir?"

Mycroft rose. "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I'm going up to see her."

"Already done, sir," Anthea replied with a rare smile.

She escorted Mycroft out of his office. As he followed, his mind wandered. Last time Irene had been in England, she had nearly brought the nation to its knees. However, judging from the file, she had put it all behind her. There was limited information about her time in Portugal, but Mycroft believed that she had given up her business of collecting dangerous information.

Last time, she had also shone brightly enough to capture Sherlock's attention. Mycroft was counting on it happening again.

Anthea brought Mycroft to a discreet corner of the building on the top floor. "I had your men bring her up here until you could decide what to do with her. The Prime Minister has been informed of her presence here."

His men were guarding the door to the interrogation room. They stepped aside when they saw Mycroft approach. He turned the knob, holding his breath. She was there, chained to the desk. Irene didn't look up as he approached and sat across from her. He was vaguely aware of Anthea closing the door behind them, but all his attention was focused on the ex-dominatrix in front of him.

She looked tired. Dark circles covered her eyes. Her hair and clothes were ruffled. The stress and grief showed on her face.

"Ms. Adler," Mycroft started. "Welcome back to England."

"Why couldn't you just let me go?" Irene asked softly, finally turning to face him. "I've been clean. I had fallen off the radar."

"Not very well, apparently," Mycroft remarked.

"My mother died. What did you expect, Iceman?" Irene replied bitterly.

"Well, as it just so happens, you're in luck," Mycroft continued smoothly.

Irene gaped for a moment in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I have a brother in need of a flat mate."

Irene's eyes lit up in realization. "You are letting me go," she realized.

Mycroft held up his hand. "Only on the condition you agree to stay with Sherlock where we can keep an eye on you."

The ex-dominatrix narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why are you doing this?"

Mycroft signaled Anthea to remove Irene's handcuffs. "Do you remember Dr. Watson?"

"Of course!" Irene replied indignantly as she rubbed at her now free wrists.

"He has gotten married."

Irene's face softened at the news. "Poor thing," she said softly. "He really loved John."

"So, do we have a deal, Ms. Adler?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, Iceman. We do."

Mycroft turned to Anthea, hoping to see her smile. Her face was blank, however, as she motioned for Mycroft and Irene to follow her. His heart sank a little, but he quickly shook it off. All that mattered was that he finally had a way to help Sherlock.

* * *

><p>To say that Irene was relieved would have been an understatement. She had fully expected Mycroft to order her execution when he stepped into that dim interrogation room. She was just happy to be leaving with her life. She never dreamed that she would be returning to Sherlock.<p>

As Mycroft's car came to a stop, Irene threw open the door eagerly. "You coming, Iceman?" she called. She heard his footsteps behind her as she strutted up to the flat.

After straightening the door knocker, Mycroft opened the door to let her in. As she entered, Irene was suddenly a little nervous. She had no idea how Sherlock would respond to her sudden reappearance. Slowly, she walked up the stairs. The sweet sound of the violin filled the air.

As Irene listened to the song, her heart broke slightly. It was the saddest sound she had ever heard. She paused in front of his door, biting her lip gently. "Is he okay?" she asked softly.

Mycroft gave her no response as he opened the door and invited himself in. Sherlock was standing at the window. At the sound of visitors, he stopped playing and gently set the instrument down. "I left a message with your assistant," he said.

"Hi, Sherlock," Irene replied.

His body stiffened and froze. Irene's heart pounded in her chest as she waited for him to turn around. When he finally did, Irene had to bite her lip to keep from gasping aloud. His entire face was gaunt, and the light had gone out of his eyes. The robe hung loosely off of his thin frame. He looked as if he might collapse from exhaustion. "What brings you to London?" he asked.

"My sick mother," Irene replied.

"Yes, and you've just been to her funeral," Sherlock deduced.

Irene chuckled softly. "Just as amazing as ever."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the floor as he frowned. Irene wanted to reach out and hug him, but she was unsure of how he would respond to that.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock, Ms. Adler needs a place to stay where we can watch her. Since you have a vacancy, I could think of no better place than right here."

"She can stay," Sherlock replied. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her yet.

"Very well," Mycroft replied. "I will go to her flat to collect her things."

"I'll send somebody to help," Sherlock replied as Mycroft turned to go.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, Irene gave in and wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. He awkwardly lifted his hands and lightly hugged her back. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

"I'm managing," he replied, shrugging her off. "I suppose you knew even before I did."

"How is he?" she asked.

"John and Mary are perfectly happy."

Irene reached out and stroked his cheek gently. He leaned into the touch, and Irene's heart broke again. It was a just a testament to how lonely he was. "Do you still go on cases?" she asked.

"Together? Yes, but I still find myself working alone often," Sherlock replied sadly. "What's the flat address? I need to send Molly Hooper over to meet Mycroft."

Irene gave him her address and watched as he texted. "Who's Molly?" she asked.

"A friend. A very lonely friend who might do Mycroft some good."

Irene smiled knowingly. "You Holmes boys, playing matchmaker with each other."

"Only one of us needs to be miserable," Sherlock replied.

Irene sat down on the couch and motioned for Sherlock to join her. He did without any protest, to Irene's surprise. She picked up the remote and flipped through the channels on the television. "Let's watch something while we wait. Forrest Gump is on. Have you seen that?"

"I haven't," Sherlock replied.

Irene scooted closer to him. He didn't seem to notice as he fixed his eyes on the television screen.

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper nearly swore when she saw the cryptic text pop up on her phone.<p>

"I'm not going to go," Molly told herself. "I'm not going to be at his beck and call."

So, naturally, Molly ended up standing in front of the tiny flat with no idea what Sherlock wanted her to do. She eyed the large black vehicle parked just in front. "What am I getting myself into?" she grumbled. Hesitantly, she stepped up to the front door and knocked.

To her surprise, the door swung open to reveal Mycroft Holmes. "Sherlock didn't tell you why he sent you here?" he asked without preamble.

"Er, no," Molly answered awkwardly.

Mycroft motioned with his hand for her to come inside, which she did. The entire flat was in boxes. Two of Mycroft's agents were moving around, packing. "Ms. Hooper, do you remember Irene Adler?"

A sudden wave of jealousy washed over Molly. She swallowed it down and answered, "Faintly."

"She has reappeared, despite my attempts to have her ended. Since it is clear that she has kept her hands clean since her disappearance, he is being put under surveillance at Sherlock's flat."

Molly's hands curled into fists as she bit back a snarky remark. The movement did not go unnoticed by Mycroft, who gave her a sympathetic smile. She ignored it and picked up a box. "I'll load."

The pathologist was fuming as she loaded boxes into the trunk. "I can't believe him," she muttered to herself, dropping her load.

"My brother can be frustrating to deal with."

Molly jumped at Mycroft's voice behind her. "Oh! I d-didn't, uh, didn't s-see-"

The man held up his hand. "Quite alright. I have that effect on people."

Under his scrutinizing gaze, Molly squirmed. "Eh, here, let me take that," she stammered awkwardly. She reached forward and took the box out of Mycroft's hands and loaded it in the trunk.

"Thank you," he replied.

With the car loaded, Mycroft turned back to Molly. "May I offer you a ride home?" he asked.

"Oh, y-yes, thank you," Molly answered.

Mycroft held open the door for her as she climbed in. The nervous pathologist looked anywhere but at him as he slid in next to her.

He was so like his brother, and yet so different. They both held an air of quiet sophistication, but Mycroft seemed gentler somehow. Perhaps it was the smoothness of each movement, or the softness in his eyes, Molly mused.

"You are the pathologist who helped my brother fake his death," he stated.

Molly looked up at him, startled. "Y-yes, that was me."

"Thank you very much, Molly Hooper," the man continued. "If there is anything you need, then you need only ask me."

He held out a card with his phone number on it. Molly took it with trembling hands and pocketed it. "T-thanks," she stuttered. Her heart felt as of it would break her rib cage at any moment.

Mycroft's gaze softened. "Nothing will ever compare to the life of my brother, which you have saved."

* * *

><p>It had been distressing to see John's room transform into Irene's room. Without looking too suspicious, Sherlock had tried to bring everything he could into his own room, including sheets, books, jumpers, anything John had left behind. He even maneuvered the armchair into his own room.<p>

Now, a blanket that had been on John's bed was pulled up around him. He hugged a pillow tightly to his chest as he curled in on himself. As he did every night, he tried to imagine it was John he held. It was all too easy, as Sherlock had spent many hours studying that man.

He had no idea why he tortured himself with such pleasant thoughts when he knew that in the morning he would just wake up alone. The truth was that he was addicted, and this was a much worse addiction than any he had ever had in the past.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had last seen John, and that was only for a short while as Sherlock deduced who the criminal was and where to find him. All too soon, John had returned home to Mary.

Sherlock dug his phone out from under his pillow and checked it. There were no missed calls; no new messages. With a heavy heart, he glanced through his old messages. The last one was from two weeks ago, when Sherlock had invited John out to the crime scene. He scrolled through the previous conversations. A few tears dropped from his eyes. The detective made no move to wipe them away, instead letting them gather on his pillow.

After replacing his phone, he clutched the pillow at his chest tighter. He wished with all his being that there could be a murder tomorrow so he could see John.


	3. Friends

Her (because she did still think of him as hers) high-functioning sociopath had been behaving decidedly unsociopathic-like as of late, and it was starting to worry Molly. She hadn't heard a rude or sarcastic comment directed at her in weeks, but it wasn't because Sherlock had suddenly developed manners. He was sad. Everybody who was close to him knew it except for John, the reason for his sadness. Despite her best efforts, nothing Molly did or said could pull the detective's mind away from him.

Fidgeting nervously, Molly knocked on the wood door in front of her. She straightened her scarf and rocked slightly on her heels as she waited.

Mary Watson opened the door with a bright smile on her face. "Molly Hooper! Please, come on in." She opened the door wider, allowing the pathologist to step inside.

"I, um, I need to talk to John. Is he here?" Molly asked nervously.

"He's in the kitchen, making his coffee," she answered. She walked further into the house, guiding Molly along. Her arms were resting gently on her stomach. To Molly, it looked as if she was due any day now.

"John, honey, we have a visitor," Mary called out as she entered the living room. She sat down on the couch and clasped her hands over her stomach. "He's in there," she said to Molly, nodding at the kitchen doorway.

Molly muttered her thanks, and walked into the kitchen. The smell of warm coffee greeted her nose, causing her to smile slightly. John was there leaning against the counter, mug in hand. "Hello Molly," he said pleasantly, a sleepy smile on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"When's the last time you saw Sherlock?" she asked. Her hands wrung nervously against her will.

John's eyes moved towards the ceiling in thought. "I saw him last week. I just popped by his flat for a quick visit."

"And did he seem a little off to you?" Molly asked. "I mean, off for Sherlock."

John frowned and furrowed his brows in worry. "Not that I noticed. Why? What's wrong?"

Molly laughed nervously. "This may sound crazy, but he seems lonely. I think he misses you."

John bit the corner of his lip gently, thinking. "I'll stop by to see him today," he said. "I'll try to reassure him that as soon as the baby is born and settled, we'll still go on cases."

"Good idea," Mary chimed in suddenly. Molly turned to see her leaning against the doorway. "It's a Saturday, and he's probably not doing anything. Why don't you take a small case?"

John hesitated before answering. "You think that's alright? You could go into la-"

"John, take a case," Mary cut in forcefully.

A high-pitched chime echoed through the room. John dug around in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "It's Greg. He says that Sherlock's down at the Yard now."

"Perfect," Mary said. "You should go. Now."

John finished his coffee and left the kitchen, presumably to get ready to meet Sherlock. Molly sighed softly, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Of course she knew that Sherlock didn't just want his friend back. He wasn't just lonely. He was pining after John, and it frustrated Molly to no end.

"How is he?" Mary asked, pulling Molly out of her thoughts. She had another mug in her hand. "Sherlock, I mean." She poured coffee into it and handed it to Molly.

"Oh, t-thanks," Molly stuttered, accepting the cup. "He's actually got a new flat mate."

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"A women by the name of Irene Adler."

"He's not just using her like he was using Janine?"

Molly shook her head. "No. His brother Mycroft actually set it up. Mycroft needs to be able to watch her. She's an ex-dominatrix, who apparently nearly compromised the entire nation a few years ago."

Mary laughed pleasantly. "Well, she sounds very capable then."

"She does like Sherlock," Molly said, swallowing her jealousy. "I think it will be good for him."

The front door opened and closed. "He's off then," Mary said. "Molly, tell me the truth." She hesitated for a moment. "Is Sherlock in love with John?"

Molly turned away from the other woman and nodded. "Yes. But he will never tell him. He really does like you, Mary. I promise."

"That's not what I was worried about," Mary replied softly.

"We've got to help him."

Mary's eyes lit up suddenly. "I'll invite him to dinner," she said excitedly. "And Irene. Oh, and you too. If Mycroft is playing matchmaker, then we ought to help him."

Molly smiled. "That sounds lovely."

* * *

><p>Irene woke with a start, her eyes darting quickly around the room and taking in her surroundings. For a disorienting moment, she had no idea where she was. As the events of the previous day came rushing back to her, her heart rate and breathing settled back to normal.<p>

She hopped out of her bed and walked down the hall. The floor was cold against her bare feet as she walked down the stairs. She could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. Spying a robe draped across the couch, Irene grabbed it and put it on. She walked into to the kitchen, expecting to see Sherlock.

Instead, his older brother had made himself at home. "Coffee, Ms. Adler?" he asked politely, handing her a mug.

She accepted the cup gratefully and took a sip. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Iceman?"

Mycroft shifted, leaning against his umbrella. The movement reminded Irene of Jiminy Cricket, which amused her to no end seeing how different Mycroft was from the fairy-tale cricket. "Do you remember a certain consulting criminal?" he asked.

"Didn't he put a bullet through his head?" Irene asked.

"Apparently not," Mycroft replied, smiling grimly.

Irene took a long sip as she scrutinized him, trying to deduce the reason for his presence. As always, the Iceman was unreadable. "So?" she asked. "What's this got to do with me, Jiminy?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Myrcroft's face at the nickname. Irene smiled gleefully, knowing that she had finally gotten him to show an emotion. "You knew him," Mycroft simply stated. "Perhaps you can help us find him."

Irene set the now empty mug on the counter. "How?" she asked.

"Sherlock called me a few moments ago. He said that the case he is on was related. I want you to come down to see what you can find. Though I loathe to admit it, James Moriarty is a genius, and beating him won't be easy."

"And you want me down at the crime scene so Sherlock will see just how useful I am and perhaps consider me as a replacement when John is unavailable," Irene added, smirking. "Mycroft the matchmaker. Imagine that."

Do you deny that you would be good for my brother?" Mycroft asked.

Irene examined his face closely. To the untrained eye, it was completely blank, but Irene could pick up the subtle faith that rested in his eyes. "He loves John," Irene said. "I don't know if I can make him stop, but I promise you that I will take care of your brother to the best of my ability."

"Let's go solve a crime then, Ms. Adler."

* * *

><p>"Finally," Sherlock commented as the long, black car pulled up along the street. He stared down the long lath across the yard at the open gate. The door swung in the wind as if welcoming the arrival of his brother.<p>

"You called Mycroft?" John asked in amazement.

Sherlock turned his intense gaze onto John. "I will not make the mistake of facing Moriarty alone again."

John shifted, obviously uncomfortable with Sherlock's intense stare, but he smiled. Sherlock felt his own mouth smile, but he wasn't paying much attention. "As a wise man once told me, friends protect people," he added.

John's eyes narrowed, confused and focused. In annoyance, Sherlock turned to see what had distracted him. "Is that..." John trailed off.

By Mycroft's side was Irene Adler. He almost didn't recognize her in her jeans, but she still had that same air of elegance about her as she crossed the yard. "Mycroft must have thought she could help us find Moriarty, given her experience with him."

"Hang on," John said. "She's supposed to be dead. Mycroft said it would take you- oh."

Sherlock smirked at his friend. "And fool him I did. Until recently, of course, when her mother's funeral forced her to come out of hiding."

"And Mycroft is okay with that?"

"So long as she stays with me. Apparently, she's given up her business. It was too dangerous, and she's decided that she rather likes being alive."

John chuckled, causing Sherlock to smile again. There was something special about the way John chuckled that Sherlock loved. For a second, he considered telling him, but he decided against it. The doctor could never know Sherlock's feelings for him. It was a secret Sherlock was prepared to take to his grave.

"Who's that with Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, coming to stand next to Sherlock.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock replied. "My new flatmate."

"Where's the body?" Mycroft asked without preamble, finally joining them.

"Inside," Sherlock replied, nodding towards the house.

Lestrade led the crew past the police tape and into the victim's living room, where he lay dead. It didn't take a genius to see that he had been shot in the head, but Sherlock had been the only one to identify the killer. It had been obvious, and he was still in shock that the police had missed it completely.

"He was holding this in his hand," Sherlock replied, pulling the crumpled note from his pocket.

"More like hanging onto it for dear life," Mycroft mumbled as he smoothed it out and read.

_To whoever it may concern,_

_I know that I am about to die. I got involved with the wrong person, and I'm about to pay the ultimate price. I don't have much time, but I need somebody to know what happened to me. I am a wealthy man, and a few months ago, something of great value was taken from me. I offered a great price to Mr. Moriarty, consulting criminal, to help me steal it back. However, it wasn't money he wanted in return. It was a favor. Recklessly, I agreed to it. However, just hours ago, he came to collect. What he wants is something I will never do. He wants-_

Mycroft handed the note to Lestrade. "I don't suppose there is a second page?" he asked.

"There is," Sherlock answered.

"Where is it, Irene?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Of course his brother knew where it was, so why ask Irene? He frowned as he watched her approach the body and kneel. Her eyes studied his face for a few minutes, then moved to his shirt. She checked his pockets before continuing her search. When she finally got to his feet, she announced, "It's in his shoe."

With a nod of approval from Sherlock, Lestrade knelt next to Irene and removed the dead man's shoe. Just as she said, there was another piece of paper there. He smoothed it as best he could and began reading.

-_me to kill a homeless man. Something about destroying a network. Mr. Moriarty would do it himself, but he knows that Sherlock Holmes will be able to trace it back to him. He gave me a slow acting poison, which I swallowed since I am about to die anyways. Please, Mr. Holmes, i you are reading this, you have to stop Mr. Moriarty._

_-Justin Redman_

Sally Donavan burst into the room with Molly Hooper in tow. "I brought her, Sherlock," Sally announced.

"Thank you, Sergeant Donavan," Sherlock replied.

Molly straightened her scarf and huffed in annoyance. "You could have called me, you know. What do you need?"

"We're going to move Mr. Redman to the morgue. Molly, you are the only pathologist I trust to do this autopsy. I need to know what poison he took."

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh. Right. Of course," she stuttered. "You still could have just called."

Beside him, John was chuckling again. Sherlock focused on the sound, trying to commit it to memory. If he should ever be unable to remember John's chuckle, he didn't know what he would do with himself.

* * *

><p>Molly had been examining the contents of his stomach for about a half hour. She kept switching between slides, examining everything closely under her microscope and scribbling on a piece of paper. As he watched, Mycroft wondered why Sherlock wasn't doing it himself.<p>

His brother was back at the victim's house now, trying to deduce where Moriarty went. John and Irene had gone with him, as well as the police. Only Molly and Mycroft remained in the morgue.

"Aha," Molly said softly into the microscope. "I found you."

Mycroft hopped off the stool where he sat and leaned over to look over Molly's shoulder. "Dimethylmercury," she explained. "I'm sure you know what that is."

He nodded. "Mr. Redman wasn't lying when he said it was slow acting. It's also extremely powerful."

Molly nodded, drumming her fingers against the table. "If Moriarty has this, it may already be too late for his next victim."

"May I?" Mycroft asked, gesturing towards the microscope.

"Oh, of course," Molly agreed, stepping away.

Mycroft gazed down through the lens at the victim's stomach sample. He could indeed see traces of dimethylmercury, but he wondered how long it would have taken him to find it had he not known what to look for. "Impressive find, Ms. Hooper," he said.

"Er, thanks." Mycroft looked up to see her blushing slightly. "Should we call Sherlock?"

"He'll be back soon enough," he replied. "Are you hungry, Ms. Hooper?"

"Oh, just Molly's fine," she said, flustered. "Uh, yes, a little bit."

"Thought you might be," Mycroft said, just as Anthea opened the door and walked in. She set two paper bags in front of him. "Thank you, Anthea."

"You had her bring takeout," Molly said. "Thank you."

Anthea disappeared without a word. Mycroft tried to brush it off, but the disappointment must have shown because Molly asked, "You two don't talk much? I mean, you aren't friends?"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Anthea is my assistant and nothing more."

The pathologist nodded in understanding. "Here, we should go to the lunch room," she said, motioning for Mycroft to follow, which he did. It wasn't far from where they were working; just around the corner. The room was empty. Mycroft say down at the nearest table and set the takeout down. He could smell the Chinese food through the bag. Ever since he was a kid, Chinese had been his favorite.

Molly sat across from him and began to eat. "Do you have any friends?" she asked.

"Besides Sherlock, no," he answered.

"Well, i-if you'd like, er, I could, um, be your friend. If you want," Molly stuttered.

Mycroft studied her face for a minute before smiling slightly. That emptiness inside of him was gone. Instead, he felt an odd warmth in his stomach. "Thank you, Molly."


	4. Dimethylmercury

Despite the pain he felt, Sherlock could not bring himself to hate Mary. He tried, but he just couldn't hate the women who made John smile again after his supposed death. Perhaps missing John would be easier if he could hate her. At least then he would be able to blame somebody besides himself.

As it was now, he was happy to see Mary, even if she did come to his flat without John. He studied her warm smile and eyes and marveled that she could be so happy to see him. Being an ex-assassin, she had sharp observational skills. She had to know how Sherlock felt about John. In fact, it seemed that everyone except John knew.

"I know it's a little mundane," Mary began, "but I would like to invite you and Ms. Adler over for dinner tomorrow."

She was right; it was mundane. However, Sherlock jumped on the chance to see John. "I would love to come," he answered.

From her position on Sherlock's couch, Mary smiled. She seemed surprised, Sherlock noted, that he had agreed to come so readily. She placed her hands on her heavily pregnant stomach and sighed contentedly. "John will be happy to see you," she said.

At the mention of John's name (and happiness), Sherlock felt his heart flutter in his chest. He shook his head, reminding himself that John was only a friend, and that was all he ever would be. In fact, he was very lucky to even have that.

Mary gasped, drawing Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Did she kick?" he asked, gesturing towards her stomach.

"Yes," Mary replied, smiling even wider.

"Have you decided on a name?" he asked. Deciding that he was tired of standing, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

"We were thinking Joan," she replied. "Joan Harriet Watson."

"Joan Watson," Sherlock repeated with a smile.

The bathroom door swung open, and Irene Adler emerged from the hallway. Her wet hair was thrown up in a bun, and she was clothed in a silky, white dress and Sherlock's robe. Sherlock was thankful that she was wearing anything at all. "You didn't tell me you were having company," she commented, pulling the robe tighter around her. "I'm Irene Adler."

Mary took her outstretched hand. "Mary Watson," she replied. "And I really should be leaving now, but it was so nice to meet you."

Irene helped Mary stand and put her jacket back on. As soon as Mary was gone, Sherlock began reviewing the information Molly had given him. "Irene, have you ever heard of dimethylmercury?"

"Ah, yes," Irene replied as she sat next to him. "Is this about that case from this morning?"

Sherlock nodded and handed her Molly's findings. She scanned it quickly with a worried expression. "We may already be too late," she said.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty wanted Redman to poison the members of my homeless network, so now he will find someone else to do it."

"There's one other thing I'm worried about though," Irene said. "Why didn't Moriarty get rid of the note?"

Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin and searched his memory. The note had been fairly easy for Sherlock to find, so surely Moriarty would have noticed it too.

"Because he left in a hurry," Sherlock answered. It was the only thing that made sense. Though he hadn't noticed at the time, he could remember an open window. Moriarty must have snuck out through there.

"What scared him off?" she asked. "Oh, the police must have been close by. The body was pretty freshly dead when I got there with Mycroft. He must have heard them and fled."

Sherlock gave her a smile of astonishment. It was a rare moment when a smile was forced out of him by surprise. He resisted the urge to hug her for her brilliance. "Exactly," he answered.

"Wait, then that means he knows that we know what his plan is," Irene said, suddenly worried again.

"Maybe," Sherlock replied. "But he may not count on us being able to figure it out. We may yet still have surprise on our side."

Irene placed Molly's papers on the coffee table and sighed. "I forgot just how malicious that man is," she said. "Have you warned the homeless network?"

"I have," Sherlock replied with a nod. "How would you like to have dinner with the Watsons tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject.

Irene smiled brightly. "I'd love too."

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper gave a long-suffering sigh as she flopped onto her couch. It wasn't long before Toby jumped onto her stomach and curled up. She reached her hand out to stroke his soft, brown fur. The tabby purred in contentment.<p>

From her pocket, Molly's phone started to vibrate. She sat up to reach it, causing Toby to mew in protest. The number was unfamiliar, but Molly answered it anyways.

"Hello?"

"Hi Molly," a familiar female voice replied from the other end. "It's me, Mary Watson."

"Oh, hi Mary!" Molly exclaimed.

"I just wanted to let you know that we are on for dinner tomorrow night. Could you show up around six?"

"Of course," Molly answered.

"Oh, and Sherlock just called, insisting that I invite Mycroft as well."

"The two Holmes brothers over for dinner? I hope that's not a disaster," Molly joked.

Mary laughed pleasantly. The two women continued to talk for a few minutes before saying their goodbyes and hanging up.

As she set her phone down on the counter, Molly realized that she was smiling brightly. She shook her head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, about to have dinner with the world's only consulting detective, his assistant, an ex-assassin, an ex-dominatrix, and a government official, and she was happy about it.

Even the bitter sting of jealousy was absent, Molly noted with pleasure. It had been so long since she had had a nice dinner with friends, and even her unrequited love for Sherlock couldn't ruin this.

Molly's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She quickly straightened her clothes and hair before opening it. "Oh, M-Mycroft," she stammered in surprise when she saw the man standing outside. "W-what can I do for you?"

"Sherlock has a mission for us," Mycroft answered with a nod towards his car.

Molly suppressed a groan as she closed the door and followed Mycroft. "What does he want?" she asked.

"Blood tests," Mycroft answered. He held the car door open for Molly, who quickly crawled inside. He sat next to her, all while staring at her. Molly suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze and pulled at her sweater nervously. "To Saint Bart's," he told the driver.

"Is this a-about the homeless network?" Molly asked.

Mycroft smiled and answered, "Yes. He wants us to look for Moriarty's poison to see if anyone's been infected."

"It will be difficult," Molly replied. "You only need a minuscule dose to be lethal. Even if we do find any, I'm not even sure if treatment would work."

"Well, we have to try."

* * *

><p>Hours later, every homeless person had left the hospital, and Molly Hooper sat with a microscope and a blood sample from each one.<p>

Mycroft handed her the first sample labeled Stephen. The pathologist examined it, writing notes down every few minutes. "Well, a-as far as I c-can tell, he's clean."

As she checked more blood, she continued to stutter her results to Mycroft. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on studying her. It was obvious that something about his presence made her nervous, but he had no idea why she should be frightened. She was an expert pathologist, and besides that, she was his friend now. What was there to be afraid of?

Molly's startled gasp pulled him out of his thoughts and into a panic as she stood quickly, knocking the stool over. She clasped her hand over her mouth and backed away slowly. "Molly, what is wrong?" Mycroft asked, the panic creeping into his voice.

"Wasn't Eve that little girl?" Molly asked.

"Seven years old. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Freckles," Mycroft replied.

Molly's eyes widened in horror as she removed her trembling hand from her face. "She's got it," she whispered.

Mycroft nearly sprinted around the table to look into the microscope. A minute of searching confirmed what Molly had told him. Young Eve was infected, and he had no idea how to stop it.

"What do we do?" Molly asked. Her voice shook, and a small tear snaked down her cheek.

Mycroft pulled her into an awkward hug as she struggled to reign in her emotions. For once, Mycroft wished he knew how to comfort people. All he could do was hold her as she shook, biting down hard into her lip. Another tear fell and trailed down her other cheek. Without thinking, he reached to wipe it away.

Every muscle in Molly's body tensed as his finger moved against her cheek. He froze, still touching her face, worried that he had done something wrong. She relaxed, however, and Mycroft gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her hair.

"I'm sorry," Molly finally said, pulling away.

"Don't be," Mycroft murmured.

Without another word, Molly straightened the stool and continued to look through the blood samples. Mycroft sat across from her and watched in fascination. Her hands continued to shake as she moved between samples. Acting on instinct, Mycroft clasped the hand that had bern writing, causing Molly to still. She smiled gratefully as she continued working.

After what felt like hours, Molly announced, "The rest look clean."

Mycroft nodded in response and removed his hand. The pathologist smiled at him, causing his heart to ache. He had built up walls so high that he wasn't sure if he was ever going to be capable of letting her in.

* * *

><p>Life on the run had turned Irene Adler into a very light sleeper. After hearing the slightest creak coming from downstairs, her eyes shot open. She held her breath, listening. Another slight creak confirmed that somebody was indeed in the flat.<p>

Irene tried to tell herself that it was just Sherlock, but something felt off. As silently as she could, she crossed her room and cracked open the door. No lights were on in the flat.

Quietly, Irene slipped into the hallway and tiptoed down the stairs. She squinted into the dark and strained her ears. The sounds seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Still on her toes, she walked forward.

A large hand suddenly clamped over her mouth, and a meaty arm snaked around her waist. Irene thrashed, but the stranger held her tight. She cried out as best she could, hoping the muffled sounds would wake Sherlock.

She kicked back, trying to strike his leg, but that only caused him to grip her harder. Her movements, however, did make him stumble into the wall. His arm around her waist loosened just enough for Irene to free her pined arm and throw her elbow into his stomach.

Irene spun around to face her attacker. She took in his brown eyes gleaming with malice, his large hands wrapped around his stomach, and the sharp, angular edges of his face. With a swift movement of her fist, she knocked his head into the wall. His eyes closed as he fell over at her feet.

"Sherlock!" Irene shouted. She knelt down to check the man's pulse. As she reached for his neck, his hand shot out and caught her wrist. Irene cried out as he twisted it painfully.

Footsteps thundered through the hall. The intruder's eyes widened in fear. He scrambled away from Irene and out the door just as Sherlock came flying into the room.

"Irene!" he cried out, rushing to kneel down next to her. She cradled her wrist close to her chest. When Sherlock reached his hand out, she let him take it, hissing when he pressed down. "Just a sprain. Who was that?"

"I don't know," Irene answered, breathing heavily. "Probably one of Moriarty's men."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know that either."

Sherlock scowled at the wall. "I don't like not knowing."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a bandage from the bathroom. Gently, he took Irene's injured wrist and wrapped the bandage around tight. Irene was amazed that a man so loud and hyper could be so delicate and gentle also. Taking her other hand, he helped her to stand.

Sherlock led Irene to the kitchen, where he retrieved a plastic bag and filled it with ice. He wrapped a towel around it and handed it to her. "Keep this on your wrist."

Irene complied, pressing the cold towel to her sprain. "What do we do now?" she asked.

"I suppose we should notify Lestrade," he mused. "We should also remain on high alert, especially at night."

"What if we got a guard dog?" Irene suggested.

"What would we need that for?" Sherlock asked with a pout.

"Sherlock, you sleep like the dead!" Irene exclaimed.

The consulting detective sighed before agreeing. "Alright. But consult Ms. Hudson first."


	5. The First Signs Of Falling

**AN: **Sorry it took so long to get this up. This chapter for some reason did not want to be written. Anyways, I did some research on the medical bits, but since I'm not an expert, I'm sorry if I completely screwed it up.

* * *

><p>Young Eve was a small child, causing her to look even younger. Her green eyes held more innocence than Molly would've thought possible for a poisoned girl. Her smile was equally bright. Molly marveled at her bravery.<p>

Mycroft had closed off a hospital room to allow Eve and her mother to meet with Molly. The pathologist straightened her back and put on her best fake smile. Truth to be told, Molly was terrified.

"You can cure her, right?" Eve's mother, Alyson, asked Molly.

"I believe that I can," Molly answered.

Alyson embraced Molly, and the pathologist could feel the mother's shaking. "Thank you," she whispered before letting go. "I don't know what we would do without you. We just can't afford a hospital bill."

The bottle of pills felt heavy in Molly's pocket. Given how dangerous what she was about to do could be, she wondered how Mycroft was able to pull so many strings to get her the correct treatment and allow her to administer it.

She turned to her silent companion, who gave her an encouraging smile. Mycroft leaned against the door, arms folded, observing. The man's piercing eyes were starting to unnerve her less as she got used to them. Molly returned the smile before turning to Eve.

The child was sitting on the hospital bed. Her little legs were swinging under it as she grinned up at Molly. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Chelation therapy," Molly answered nervously, her voice faltering. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bottle. "I have in here DMSA pills. I'm going to give you a small amount. Next week, we're going to meet again, and I'm going to take another blood sample."

"This will cure me?" Eve asked.

"Y-yes, it sh-should," Molly replied. She swallowed hard, hoping to swallow her stuttering.

Molly measured out the DMSA and placed the amount in Eve's hand. The child swallowed it, then beamed up at Molly. "Thank you," she said.

"Thank you so much," Alyson added. "You are our hero."

Molly blushed uncomfortably. Young Eve hopped off of the bed and hugged her. Awkwardly, Molly patted her back. The girl pulled away and ran to grab her mother's hand. Molly's fingers twitched as she watched. Sometimes, Molly was fine, but other times she was painfully aware of how lonely she was.

Mycroft opened the door to let Alyson and her daughter out. As they left, he closed the door behind them and turned his piercing gaze to Molly. Instead of fidgeting uncomfortably like she might have a few days ago, she met his gaze and smiled.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," Molly replied, nodding. "But do you think she's alright?"

"I do," Mycroft answered.

The surety of Mycroft's answer comforted her. Molly was still afraid that she would fail, but if someone like Mycroft believed in her, then she must be doing alright.

"Would you like to get lunch somewhere?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

Molly blinked in surprise. "Er, yes. I would love too."

* * *

><p>Having the police at the flat made Irene uneasy, so she snuck out for a walk. She was eager to really explore London again, without fearing the government finding her. Although the urge to look over her shoulder was still there, Irene was more relaxed walking outside than she had been in a while.<p>

Irene had been very happy in Portugal, but there was always something inside of her that missed England. As she walked around, Irene was beginning to wonder if it was really London that she had missed. It was a great city, and Irene loved it, but as she refamiliarized herself with the place, it was becoming clear why she had missed it.

She had missed Sherlock. Irene had been infatuated since they met, but she wasn't sure when she had fallen in love with the man. The feeling she had towards Sherlock was different than anything she had ever felt towards anyone before. She had looked at other people before and known that she wanted to have them, but when she looked at Sherlock, all she wanted was to hold him.

Now that she had settled down, and now that it was safe, there was nothing that Irene wanted more than to spend the rest of her life with Sherlock. Unfortunately for her, there was nothing that Sherlock wanted more than to spend the rest of his life with John.

At that thought, Irene shoved her fists into her pockets and walked faster. Jealousy was an unfamiliar emotion to her. In her old life, if she wanted somebody, she had them. Maybe Sherlock was right, and love was a weakness. It definitely made Irene feel week.

She entered a small cafe, hoping some coffee would clear her head. The line was short, and Irene pretty much walked right up to the counter. She ordered a cappuccino and began to drink. The warm coffee felt good on her throat as she let herself relax.

To Irene's surprise, as she glanced around the cafe, she spotted Mycroft and Molly at a table near the window, deep in conversation. Irene smiled to herself. It seemed that Sherlock's plan to push them together was working.

Molly caught Irene's eye and smiled warmly. Irene smiled and nodded in greeting. The pathologist turned back to the Iceman, eyes alight. That unfamiliar jealous pang struck Irene's stomach again, and she sighed internally.

Irene finished her cappuccino and left the cafe. She began walking back to Baker Street, sure that the police would be done. Now that her mother was gone, her entire world was there in 221B.

* * *

><p>"Who's that?" Mycroft asked, glancing behind him.<p>

"Irene Adler," Molly answered. "She's just stopped for a quick drink."

Mycroft nodded absently. His entire focus was on the women in front of him. Somehow, she had caught his attention, and was continuing to surprise him with her kind heart. Molly Hooper, who was his only friend in the world after Sherlock, was looking at him with shining eyes as she ate her sandwich.

"How is she settling?" she asked.

"Wonderfully," Mycroft answered. "Ms. Adler is an excellent match for Sherlock."

Though Molly did her best to hide it, Mycroft could still see the jealousy in her eyes as he spoke. For the first time, Mycroft wondered what it would be like to have someone look at him in that way. His lonely heart ached from within his chest.

"Well, I'm happy that he's happy," Molly replied, smiling just a little too much. "Forgive me if I'm intruding, but the two of you don't seem to be very close"

"No, not anymore," Mycroft answered sadly. "I'm afraid that I didn't realize what a wonderful gift having a brother was until much too late."

Molly gazed at him oddly. The look was almost sympathetic. Mycroft didn't think he had ever had someone's sympathy in his life.

"I'm glad you have each other now," Molly answered.

As Molly continued to talk, Mycroft noted the absence of a nervous stutter. He was relieved that Molly seemed more comfortable in his presence than she had been the other day. He was starting to grow fond of the mousy pathologist.

Molly's face was an open book. Her expressions were alight as emotion danced across her face. She talked about her work mostly, which Mycroft assumed would scare most people away. He, however, found it fascinating. The passion that lit Molly's eyes was even more fascinating.

"Sorry, I'm probably rambling," Molly said.

"Not at all," Mycroft encouraged. "Your work is very interesting."

Molly snorted. "Pathology? Really?"

Mycroft nodded honestly. Molly narrowed her eyes doubtfully at him. "Well, anyways, I'm curious about what you do. Besides all that secret government stuff I mean.

"I pretty much spend every waking minute working, especially now that our little friend has come back and seems intent on watching the world fall at his feet."

"Have you figured out how he faked his death yet?" Molly asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Perhaps we should have had a professional such as yourself examine the body."

The pathologist blushed deeply. "I'm not... Er, I mean, I guess I am but..." Molly struggled for words. It was charming to watch, but also confusing.

"Do not be so quick to discredit your abilities. You were the only pathologist my brother trusted, after all."

Suddenly, Mycroft could see Sherlock's actions for what they really were: an attempt to set him up. The man chuckled inwardly at his brother. He supposed it had worked. Molly was now his friend.

As Molly smiled hesitantly, a feeling awoke in Mycroft's chest which he thought had been long dead. It had been awhile, but he still recognized the first signs of falling.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had spent all day thinking about dinner. Irene had tried to distract him, but it was no use. All Sherlock wanted to think about was John.<p>

He missed the old days before he jumped off a building more than words could express. He wanted John just to be his again, but as he sat at John's table, he was reminded that John had a family now that didn't include him.

When John sat in the chair next to him, the figurative butterflies fluttered around his stomach. His hand was resting on the table, and Sherlock longed to reach out and grab it. He imagined that it would feel very warm, and that their fingers would fit perfectly together. Of course they would. After all, everything about John fit perfectly into Sherlock's life.

"How are things going with the Moriarty case?" John asked.

"Still no sign of him," Sherlock answered. "But I'll find him soon."

"I certainly hope so," Mary replied.

As she spoke, John instantly turned his warm eyes towards her. Love was etched plain to see in his face. He smiled, and Sherlock felt a weight drop into his stomach. The great detective sighed slowly and wondered why he was cursed to love a man who would never love him back.

Sherlock forced his attention away to focus on his brother. He was sitting across from him at the table, next to Molly. Mycroft glanced at the pathologist whenever she wasn't looking. Sherlock grinned, satisfied. He knew Molly would be able to bring his brother out of the depression he seemed to be in.

"Only one of the homeless was infected, but Molly is working on chelation therapy with her," Mycroft added.

Molly glanced up at him and smiled. "I wouldn't have been able to help if Mycroft hadn't used his government interference."

Sherlock smirked at the exchange. At least one thing was going right in his life.

"The meal is wonderful," Irene piped up from next to him. "Who cooked?"

The dinner laid out on the table was one of the best Sherlock had had in a long time. He hadn't really noticed until today that his eating habits had changed. He was eating even less. Without John there to remind him, eating lost a lot of purpose.

"We both did," Mary answered.

Sherlock spooned roasted vegetables into his mouth and tried to pretend that he wasn't jealous. Irene, as if able to sense the change in his mood, reached under the table and squeezed his hand. Before she could move away, Sherlock grabbed it and held it. The women ducked her head in an attempt to hide her smile, but Sherlock saw it. Her hand was as warm as he imagined John's to be, and while the slender fingers felt different to hold, it was still a nice feeling.

Sherlock had no idea why he did it. He still loved John and only John. He supposed that he was just reaching out for comfort. Whatever the reason, he was glad that Irene was there.

"So, how is Ms. Hudson?" John asked.

"She's fine, though I suspect she will have a heart attack when Irene brings a dog into the flat," Sherlock replied with a grin aimed at Irene.

"I'll ask her first!" Irene exclaimed defensively.

"No you won't," Sherlock replied.

Mary laughed at the pair. "I've been telling John that a dog would be good for Joan when she's a little older."

"Did you know Sherlock had a dog growing up?" Mycroft cut in.

"No," answered John and Irene simultaneously.

"His name was Redbeard," Sherlock supplied. The genius had many fond memories of the dog. He had always found it hard to make friends as a child, and Redbeard was the best one he had.

"I fostered dogs when I was living in Portugal," Irene stated. "I really love them. But I was thinking that our flat could benefit from a guard dog after it was broken into last night."

Four pairs of concerned eyes found there way to Sherlock and Irene. "Who was it?" John demanded, frowning worriedly.

"One of Moriarty's men, we believe," Sherlock answered.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked.

"Irene sprained her wrist fighting him off, but that is the extent of the damage."

John, whom Sherlock was keeping in his peripheral vision the entire time, stared at Irene with newfound awe and respect. It hadn't occurred to Sherlock that fighting off the intruder had been anything out of the ordinary, but as he reflected on it, he realized just how brave Irene was. That was good. If Irene was going to stay, she needed to be brave, just like John.

The ex-dominatrix's hand was still in Sherlock's. It was starting to feel hot, so he let it go. Irene met his eyes and smiled brightly, and Sherlock realized that he was happier than he had been in a long time.


End file.
